


When He Sleeps, He Dreams

by Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Domestic Avengers, Established Relationship, Everyone Needs A Hug, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, sort of, stucky feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky isn't the only one who has nightmares...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [When He Sleeps, He Dreams (translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019683) by [StuckyShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckyShipper/pseuds/StuckyShipper)



> Spur of the moment, late-night plot bunny because Steve's always the one taking care of Bucky, and Steve needs a damn hug, especially after Cap2.
> 
> Not Beta'ed, at all, but I cleaned it up as best as I could.

When Steve dreams, he dreams about home, the familiar smell of the bakery across the street, of Ol’ Mrs. Robins’ laundry soap from the floor above him, of the view of Brooklyn from his own torn-down apartment. The modern world could never replace everything’s he known, but he adjusts. New York smell more like a garbage with all the smoke in the air on some days, and Brooklyn looks more weathered, more beaten down. Yeah, the times haven’t been exactly kind, but he makes due.

So when Steve dreams, he dreams of his Ma, of her smile, and of Bucky, and his folks, and how, for as long as Steve could remember, the Barnes always invited Sarah Rogers and Steve over for Thanksgivings, Christmases, Easters, and any other gathering. Bucky’s Ma and his Ma were pretty much the best of friends, even when Sarah’s health started taking a turn for the worst. He dreams of his Ma’s death too, and how much it hurt, and how the Barnes’ were more than willing to take Steve in, helping in any way they could. And damnit, there are days when he misses them…all of them.

Bucky does, too. He could tell, but they fill that void with old laughter, jokes, and jabs. They’re both well out of their time, two men from an era, forced into another, more modern one, but, like many things, they make due, much like always have.

And much like seventy years ago, they still make due. Sure Steve and Bucky have money from there time in the army, (war pensions that were not fully paid to Buck’s folks nor his sister for some reason, he still gets worked up about it, and Steve’s since he really didn’t have any next of kin, but he remembers writing Bucky’s folks in there somewhere) but they don’t spend on much only on what they really need, like basic clothes, a decent coat for winter (not that Steve has to worry about pneumonia anymore), and food. Heck they still sleep in the same bed, a habit from their childhood, and even from the war, sharing bunks meant sharing warmth, and saving room for others. And yeah, the bed was plush and warm and huge, Tony left no expense when Steve finally, _finally_ moved into Avenger’s tower, and when nearly a year and a half later, a deprogrammed Bucky Barnes was taken in as an unofficial member of the Avengers.

Both of them had separate, spacious rooms, with a large living room looking over New York, bedroom, and bathroom, with 24/7 access to JARVIS. It was a far cry from their cramped one bedroom apartment with a lumpy torn sofa and rundown kitchen (if you could have called it one, but, out of habit, they spend more time in Steve’s room, and, out of habit, they still share a bed (apparently the saying was true, old habits die hard). And they still whisper to each other at night, stealing kisses in the dark, knowing fully well that the world is different, and that they really don’t have to hide what they had, what they always had, beyond the walls.

There are nights when Steve holds a silent vigil, watching over his best friend, his lover, through fitful sleeps and dreams, resting a comforting hand along his side, his arm, cheek, anything to ward off the nightmares that were sure to come, to talk the former sergeant down when he jumps or screams awake, ready for an attack, ready to fight for his life with fear and determination in his eyes. The skin on skin contact, or simply the warmth radiating from their bodies help; there are night when Bucky wakes only once then falls back to sleep, and sometimes, sleeps peacefully throughout the night.

It gets better, and Steve rest easier.

But when Steve rest easier, sometimes Steve dreams.

Steve still dreams of his Ma, but sometimes, he dreams of the stain of blood upon her lips, the bleeding that never ceased to stop, despite how frantically he pleads and tries, the blood only seems to come faster. He still could see the look of his Ma’s eyes, once bright and blue like his own, dull and murky, sunken in his once beautiful face, as she whispered through bloodied teeth, _“You failed me Sweetheart,”_ before disappearing in his arms.

He still dreams of the war, and of the blood, and the gunfire, and the lives he _could’ve_ saved. There were things he saw, that he would never admit aloud, the he was never prepared for, of woman and children dead on the streets, of innocent civilians pleading with him and the other commandos to stop Schmidt and the Nazis, Hydra and Hitler. He still hears them, still sees them, despite how much he tries not to.

He still dreams of Bucky, still could feel him as the wrapped around each other in the dead of winter holding on for warmth, and then he still sees him, hanging on for dear life on that railing, his hand outreached for Steve, eyes pleading with him to help him, to save him. He reaches out, desperately trying to save his comrade, his friend, his _lover_ , but he never reaches, instead, watches Bucky fall into the snow down below, bleeding, broken, and found by Hydra. He ever reaches, he never gets to touch, and it kills him to only watch. And he watches on in agony and anger as they work of Bucky, listens to his cries of pain, watching on as Hydra tries to erase Bucky to make the Winter Soldier. _“This is all because of you,”_ whispers a voice in his ear that sounds eerily like Armin Zola. Steve feels sick, tears burning in his eyes as he looks upon the broken body of his lover, reaching out, never getting close enough to touch.

Steve sometimes dreams of fighting someone in the dark, no, several people, that he cannot see, but fights blindly. Fight or flight, and like hell he was going to be taken down without a fight. And then he feel the ice creeping along the back of his neck, taking down those attacking him with everything he’s got, as he ran from cold. He firmly grabs the combat knife on his person and takes down the final foe, as the lights flicker on. The ice is gone, almost as if it had never been there but his eyes widen as he scans the room, his shield clamoring to the floor as he takes in the sight of fallen bodies. It’s all of them, Tony, Thor, Clint, Bruce, Natasha, Sam, Sharon, Hill, all on the floor, blood staining the tile of the room. Panicked he turns to his final victim and collapses into a pool of blood as reaches out for Bucky, a combat knife firmly planted in his chest. Steve chokes back a sob as he looks as his friends and Bucky, his world falling apart around him as he hugs Bucky’s limp body to his own, whispering through his sobs _“Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”,_ as he could faintly hear the former assassin wheeze out, _“Guess this is the end of the line, pal.”_

When Steve has _these_ dreams, he jolts awakes, a scream or a plead on his lips. And when he does, he fights off the arms around him, or the soothing hand or the covers, his breaths ragged, heart racing, and God, is he ready for a fight. _“Steve…Stevie…Baby, I got you,”_ he hears though the haze of his sleep, his heart nearly breaking at the voice. It couldn’t be Buck, no Bucky’s… _“I got you….you’re safe Babe, safe with me. You just gotta breathe with me,”_ he feels a warm hand on his chest, another through his hair, or around his waist or shoulders. He turns around and sees Bucky, eyes wide and awake, filled with worry. And dear lord, sometimes he thinks he’s still dreaming, that this is some cruel trick.

_“B-Bucky?”_ he’ll sometimes gasp out, his own eyes wide and wild, as he reaches out for the other man, burying himself in his chest, searching for a heartbeat, or feeling for the pulse in his neck before falling into Bucky’s arms as they wrapped around his frame. It feels different, still, Steve’s no longer a sickly kid, about 6 inches shorter, from Brooklyn that’s about 90 pounds soaking wet on a good day, but he feels like he’s that small, sometimes he wishes he was that small again.

_“Yeah, Stevie, it’s me,”_ Bucky whispers into his hair, kissing the crown of his head. _“I’m alive and here with you Baby,”_ he speaks slowly and calmly, talking Steve down, his heart still racing. And it’s always like this, Bucky holding him tightly, whispering in his ear, the cool metal of his hand gently running along the back of his neck and back. _“That’s it, Steve, just breathe easy for me, just like before, right? Whenever your asthma snuck up on you? Slow and easy,”_ and he does, as Bucky lays him back down onto the mattress, his lover shifting so that their eyes can meet.

And they’ll stay like that, until Steve calms down, and Bucky leans in to press a kiss his lips. They won’t talk about it right away, never right away, but in the morning, over coffee, or after a run, it always seemed better that way. So, like always, whenever Steve wakes from a dream, from a nightmare, Bucky will hold him, whispering to him to rest and _“I’ll be right here, Babe. Sleep,”_ and sometimes, Steve does, curled up against his lover, his boyfriend, his friend, as Bucky sometimes decides that it’s _his_ turn to keep watch, or they talk about the past, about Bucky’s folks, their old hangouts, and the smell of Ol’ Mrs. Robins’ laundry soap, or the bakery across the street.

When Steve sleeps, he dreams. Sometimes he dreams of the horrors, and sometimes he dreams of past, of those he loved and lost, and he dreams of the future, of the present. And when he wakes up, Bucky will be either right beside him or close by, waiting with a cup of coffee and that stupid smirk he’s always known, complaining how Steve stole the covers, calling him a punk. 

That Jerk.


	2. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after one of Steve's nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help it...more Stucky for you! 
> 
> Again, un-beta'ed

He sets a warm cup of coffee on the counter, as he pours some for himself, adding some milk to his own cup before taking a careful sip. Bucky was never one to take his coffee black. That was just horrid. Sure during war, you had to make due, but Bucky would gladly take the milk when given the opportunity.

Steve should be out any minute, he knows he heard the water running just a few minutes ago. He runs a hand through his hair, still somewhat long, but not as long has he had it when he was with Hyrda, and yet still not as short as it had been in the 40s. He still felt uneasy about scissors, and he only trusted himself and Steve to cut it, and even then, he couldn’t find it in him to cut it all. Slow, steady baby steps is what Sam always told him.

As he leaned against the counter, coffee warming him with every sip, he feels a familiar small body rub against his leg. He smirked as he glanced own, green eyes meeting with a soft meow. “Sure, because God forbid I forget to feed you, Clio.” He set his mug down, making his way over to the pantry, Clio, the little thing she was, following, finding the single loose string on Bucky’s sleeping shorts, more entertaining than the thought of food for a moment as the bell on her collar ringed happily. He chuckled as he opened the pantry finding a small bag of wet cat foot for the kitten and serving it to her in her small food dish, the little terror she was digging in. 

He would like to say that Steve found Clio, but that would just be a down right lie. Clio, just a kitten, no more than a month old, found them, having snuck into Steve’s hoodie one cold day when they were in the park. She just so happened to be close to the bench they were sitting on when out of nowhere, a small white puff of fur, with only two charcoal grey marks on her head, and a stub for a tail climbed up, and made herself at home in one of his pockets, and just like that, Clio’s been with them for the last three months.

Bucky snatched his cup up once again just as Steve comes out of the bedroom, dark circles slowly beginning to form around his eyes again. Steve had another rough night, another batch of nightmares that kept him from getting the rest he needed. And Bucky had been there to sooth them away, the brush away the faint trail of tears, much like Steve had done for him countless of times. And fuck did it hurt to see him like that. 

“Hey,” Bucky heard Steve greet softly. “Hey, yourself,” he handed the blonde his cup of black tar (Bucky still had no idea how Steve could handle the stuff). They stood leaning against the counter together, there arms touching as they drank their coffee. Technically, today was their rest day, and while it looked like it would be a sunny day, perfect for a morning run, JARVIS had informed them that there was rain in the morning forecast, so they decided to skip it.

So their mornings were filled with friendly jabs and talks of mission reports. “Don’t even remind me,” Bucky groaned, “Hill will probably start hunting me down if I don’t turn in that damn report by 1700 hours.” They both laughed, but the smile didn’t exactly reach Steve’s eyes, even as Clio had finished her food and pounced on Steve’s leg as a friendly good morning. “Hey,” Bucky started off, his voice was strong but gently, comforting, much like it had been after Steve’s Ma’s funeral. “You okay? And don’t go tellin’ me you are…”

He watched as his shoulders slumped when he sighed, the way everything about Steve nearly screamed ‘Hold me’. He placed his now empty cup down, reaching out for Steve’s and doing the same he brought his lover into a warm embrace, arms wrapping securely around him. And it was times like this that he kinda wishes Steve were smaller, and how easy it was just to wrap around him nice and tight, but be still manages, much like they used to during the war. He listens as Steve lets out another breath, this time he felt it shutter as he exhaled. He’s still the asthmatic little guy from Brooklyn who didn’t know when to back out of a fight, except with a healthier and bigger body and a whole lot of baggage that people really don’t see when they see Captain America. They don’t see the fact that he was in a war, that he watched men, women, and children die, that he watched his best friend fall to his supposed death and then a few days later be thrust into the modern world. And if that wasn’t enough to fuck someone over, then they’d be lying in Bucky’s book.

People don’t see that, they don’t see his dreams, his nightmares. But Bucky has, and Bucky knows. He know what it’s like to wake of screaming, ready to fight for your life, only to have your lover trying to calm you down. He knows what it’s like to sleep and to dream about the horrors they witnessed, to wake up hoping that none of it was true, but deep down, they knew it was. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, is what they called it now. PTSD for short, and apparently, people see it as a real illness now…Bucky didn’t know how to feel about that. But with Sam’s help and guidance, the fog got a little clearer. The nightmares and the flashbacks got easier to handle, making his own choices was a huge step for Bucky, and Steve had been there the entire time, supporting him, leading him, comforting him. And now it was Bucky’s turn to return the favor, despite how stubborn Steve Rogers could be

He focuses back to Steve who his clutching the back of his shirt tightly, holding on to him as if he Bucky would just up and vanish…and truth be told, it wouldn’t be the first time it happened. He pulled Steve over to the sofa in the living room, Clio jumping onto the back of the sofa looking down at Steve and Bucky with questioning green-grey eyes. The former assassin kisses Steve’s temple lightly, as they hold each other. “What were they about, Stevie?” Talking sometime help, so Bucky waits patiently for Steve to respond. 

“Everything,” he hears Steve mutter against his shoulder. “Ma, the War…you…It was all because of me…”

Bucky pulled away a bit to find Steve’s eyes, bloodshot but still that familiar shade of blue he always loved looking into. With his metal arm, he gently cups Steve’s chin. “No. None of this was your fault,” he states firmly before kissing Steve gently on the lips, his hand moving to card through mused blonde hair. “You did everything you could, and I’m so damn proud of you Steve, so fucking proud,” Bucky says into the kiss. 

When they part, he leans his forehead against Steve’s, while the blonde’s hand traces on the metal of his arm. “You’re Ma was always proud of you, Stevie, and no one could have ever thought that Hydra would find me, and in war, we witnessed things no one could ever dream,” he kisses Steve’s forehead and he reaches around his neck, fiddling with the dog tags along the chain. “What we’ve been through, there’s no coming back from that, but I’m with you, ‘til the end of the line, Babe, always.” And Bucky fingers one of the tags around Steve’s neck, his thumb running over the stamped metal of his own name, which clinked right next to Steve’s… _Barnes, James B. ,numbers, rank_. They had switched one night during the war, claiming that once they got home, they would switch the single tags back, but Hydra took his tags, and Bucky never recovered them, but all this time, Steve still had one of his, kept him close despite all those years.

He felt Steve nod lightly as they laid on they laid on the sofa. Bucky placed a kiss upon the crown of Steve’s head once more before feeling Steve finally ease ever so slightly. And just like Steve did for Bucky, the assassin will keep vigil, because he knows all too well that when Steve sleeps, he dreams, and he’ll be right there to help him fight them.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna so sit in the corner and think about Stucky feels....
> 
> Comments and kudos are lovely! Thank you for reading!


End file.
